Taking Up Serpents: Brody Taylor Thrillers, #3

By Ian Sutherland

Would you kill yourself to save your loved one?

 

When Brody Taylor receives a 'death letter' from a fellow elite hacker, sent a week after his murder, its contents present Brody with an offer even he can't refuse. With the investigation being led by his girlfriend, DI Jenny Price, Brody faces an unexpected personal and professional conflict of interest. Meanwhile, unaware of the victim's true occupation, Jenny is stumped. How and why would a disabled Afghan War veteran be poisoned in his own home by one of the world's most deadly snakes?

 

Working side by side, but with very different objectives, Brody and Jenny uncover a global cyberterrorist conspiracy. To prevent the cyberweapon from releasing its deadly payload, Brody realises he'll need to lie to Jenny once again, knowing the truth will destroy their relationship. But with tens of thousands of innocent people scheduled to die within twenty-four hours, does he have any choice?

 

Forget nuclear, chemical and biological weapons. The modern-day weapon of mass destruction is digital. And we're all at risk.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian Sutherland
• Release date: Oct 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536554762

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Ignoring the tightness in his chest, Murdo MacLeod fell into a hypnotic rhythm, pedalling slowly but consistently, his practised eyes scanning the weave for any breaks in the coarse thread. The seductive clacking noise of the loom — its cogs and wheels moving in mechanical precision, the shuttle flying left and right across the warp, the beater beam flipping forwards and backwards — overpowered the tinny radio on the shelf behind him.

His gaze fell on the familiar vista through the loom shed’s panoramic window. In the distance, black clouds formed across the ocean’s horizon. Like an army’s initial frontal attack, Atlantic waves threw their might against the ragged cliffs, sea foam dancing gently in the mounting breeze like dandelion fluff from the summer yet to come.

Lost to the rhythm, Murdo’s thoughts roamed freely. He thought of his daughter Morag, preparing for her final law exams on the mainland. In two weeks, she would finally return home. He hadn’t seen her for two months, not since his check-up at the specialist hospital in Inverness. He would drive carefully across the winding single-track roads of the Isle of Lewis, and collect her from the ferry port in Stornoway, the island’s capital. One glance at the slant of her lopsided smile and the depth of the furrow in her brows would tell him all he needed to know about whether she had passed or not.

The Victorian grandfather clock standing in the corner of the shed began its quarter-hour ritual, its church-like chimes just audible above the clatter of the loom. As he absently reached an arm behind in an attempt to rub his now aching upper back, Murdo wondered what his own grandfather would have made of the noisy old piece of furniture now located in the loom shed, long since banished from pride of place in the croft’s hallway. Murdo smiled wryly as he attempted to formulate the stream of Gaelic curses that his grandfather would have let fly had he been alive to see the sight.

The chimes gonged twice. As usual, time had escaped him. Perhaps he ought to stop for a bite of lunch with Caitriona, his wife of twenty-four years. By now she would surely have finished feeding the croft’s livestock and would be preparing a late lunch. He wondered if she had come up with a new panini recipe or whether it would be brie-and-tomato for the fourth day in a row, a concoction she had filched from the brand new Starbucks in Stornoway. She’d already let slip that she wanted an espresso coffee machine for Christmas. God knows how he would be able to afford that. He would need —

A lightning bolt of pain shot through Murdo’s chest. He clutched his fist to his heart as he felt his body rapidly weaken from the wrenching attack. He gasped for breath but found he couldn’t breathe. His legs stopped pumping the cast iron loom as he listed to one side, the agony overpowering. Powerlessly, he watched the slate floor rush towards him.

Unable to reach his hands out, his face took the full force, mercifully knocking him out cold.

Murdo MacLeod never regained consciousness.

David Dougan looked straight at the camera with the green light and gave his trademark smile, the one he knew viewers melted over.

Now that the onions are caramelised to perfection … He gave the burnt onions one more stir. At least the cameras couldn’t pick up the acrid smell emanating from the pan. … stir in one tablespoon of plain flour.

Dougan followed his own instruction and sprinkled some over the onion roux. He stirred vigorously with his wooden spoon, hoping the speed would prevent the camera mounted directly above from picking out any black bits. This will help thicken the soup, but just a touch. We’re not making an onion stew, are we? He turned to his guest. How’re you getting on with grating the Gruyere? He already knew the answer. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Davinda Rural, internationally famous Bollywood singer, had already finished the block of cheese. She’d made a bit of a mess and he just about stopped himself from shouting at her, remembering he wasn’t in his own kitchen and that the show was being broadcast live.

Gritting his teeth, he let her answer, allowing his peripheral vision to appreciate the substantial outline of her breasts bursting through the low-cut black top she had donned to impress the British viewing public. He wondered if his high-def audience could see her nipples jutting through the tight-fitting top as clearly as he could. What a woman. He’d presumed such a well-regarded Indian actress would have worn a sari, but no, here she was, in Western garb revealing as much skin as his son’s hot new fiancée. He was definitely looking forward to this week’s after show party.

Almost done, Chef, she answered politely.

He appreciated the use of his title. It reminded him of the days in Dublin, when he ran his first Michelin-starred restaurant. The period when, God forbid, one of his sous-chefs would have botched French Onion Soup like Dougan had done this morning. A thunderous bollocking, laden with quality Irish expletives, would have been guaranteed. Fortunately, no one would ever taste the concoction he was stirring right now. There was another waiting, pre-prepared by the show’s cooking stylist, glistening to perfection in the warm oven to his left. That would be the one his other celebrity guests would taste in a few minutes before they cut from live to a pre-recorded segment.

While Dougan stirred and Davinda grated, he took the opportunity to ask some of the planned questions about Davinda’s new BBC television series set in colonial India. It may be a live cookalong show, but Davinda was no cook. She was only here to promote her new show to the viewers. He half-listened to her answer while ladling in some beef stock from the huge pan on the other hob, pleased to see the burnt bits hadn’t floated to the top. In a pause between her long anecdotes, he jumped in for the benefit of the small handful of viewers he suspected were actually cooking along live. Add the stock a ladle at a time.

Davinda droned on. Behind the cameras, technicians worked flawlessly, catching everything. Dougan purposely avoided looking at her tits. He didn’t want the camera to catch him at it. He’d end up on the front page again, and he’d had enough of that.

Once all the stock was in, he reached for the bottle of white wine. Add a good glass of dry white wine. Make sure it’s quality, but don’t go mad now. A good Australian Sauvignon Blanc or maybe a decent Italian Pinot. He looked sternly at the camera, deliberately smirking to let the viewers know a punchline was coming. It maybe French Onion soup, but only you and I will know that you didn’t use your best French Chablis.

Davinda laughed at his joke. Dougan appreciated the additional irony that the white wine he was actually adding was some cheap plonk the food stylist had dug up, a strategically placed blank white label preventing product advertising on the Beeb.

Dougan finally reached for the brandy, the last ingredient, other than seasoning of course. Finally, he’d be able to swap the pigswill he’d made live on television for the pre-prepared stuff the stylist had worked on overnight. He unscrewed the cap and splashed some in the pot. As he held the bottle, the most excruciating pain struck him right across his chest. At first he held himself rigid, trying to mask his agony, the brandy pouring continuously, but the pain didn’t abate and he felt his body quicken, his ears blocking out all sounds, and blackness began to form around the edges of his vision.

Absurdly, Dougan became annoyed that the encroaching blackness prevented his peripheral vision from taking in the profile of Davinda’s gorgeous tits. But then it constricted further, striking him blind. He felt his legs give way completely and heard a scream as he dropped to the plastic floor, his arms flailing madly. The huge pot of soup crashed down on top of him, its boiling contents scorching his face and chest. He felt the heat only momentarily before the blackness swallowed him whole.

The cameras kept rolling while Davinda Rural kept screaming.

The crofter and the celebrity chef were two amongst many deaths in an otherwise unremarkable day of death in the UK.

In a retirement home in Newcastle, Ellie-Rae Granger had fought off the barmy ones suffering from dementia to gain control of the television. She bemoaned being one of the few with all her mental faculties intact, incarcerated within the bloody home because her body rather than her mind had let her down. The last stroke may have rendered all feeling from her left side, but it didn’t stop her using her right arm to slot the remote control down by her hip in her wheelchair, allowing her to continue feasting her eyes on her favourite celebrity chef, the good-looking Irish charmer, David Dougan. As Ellie-Rae watched him and the Indian actress make onion soup, she vacantly observed the chef drop behind the stovetop counter. It was the last thing Ellie-Rae ever saw as she too quietly slipped away, her numb left side masking any pain. An opportunistic fellow patient spotted Ellie-Rae loosen her grip on the remote control and grabbed it, turned the channel over and settled on a cartoon.

Off the Cornish coast of Padstow, Winston Jones was hauling in the nets after a long morning’s trawl. As the nets deposited their contents into the hold, he smiled, pleased to see it was a good catch. He’d be back in time for lunch, just in time to see his wife before she left for work in the coffee shop in the centre of town. But it was the last thought he had, as his body went rigid, causing him to lose his balance and topple over the side. Winston Jones’ half-eaten body was washed up at the foot of the cliffs four days later.

Darren Raymond pumped his hips back and forth with all his might. He looked down at the stunning young redhead naked beneath him and, noticing her lips were parted, her breathing heavy and her eyes shut, grinned lasciviously at his good fortune. He had no idea what her name was, but it wasn’t the first time he’d awoken hungover to find a gorgeous woman next to him, and no memory of how she’d got there.

Well, they weren’t always gorgeous, he admitted to himself; that was one of the downsides of right-swiping every profile in the immediate Edinburgh vicinity displayed on his Tinder dating app. When you were drunk and in need of a quick fuck, you couldn’t be choosy and swipe to the left, throwing away potential hook-ups. Darren felt his cock harden even more and knew he wouldn’t last much longer. He was sweating now and the headache from his hangover was starting to get in the way. Suddenly, the pain in his head shot right down across his body, forcing him to arch his back almost to breaking point, and inadvertently causing him to thrust deeply. He heard the redhead exclaim a breathless, Yes! before his body slumped on top her, now a literal dead weight.

In the Midlands, Surinder Patel traipsed up the stairs to the top floor of the block of flats, disheartened to see the local gang lying in wait. What would it take for the sorting office manager to accept that he could no longer deliver to this block on his own? A courier’s uniform was no protection against the drug-fuelled gangs that roamed the Leicester housing estate. Hesitantly, he moved forward, knowing that he had to pass by them on the balcony if he was to successfully deliver the Amazon parcel to number 96. Predictably, they blocked his way, shouting racist taunts at him. Two of them began pushing him. But in the middle of their hustle, he screamed with pain, his body going rigid, and, as a result, he was unable to offer any resistance to the final push from the biggest kid, the one with the ring in his nose. Surinder’s body flipped backwards over the balcony and dropped to the ground below with a sickening thud, just missing a small girl playing on her scooter. She screamed as blood splattered over her brand new white coat. Five floors above, the gang of kids looked at each other briefly and, without a word, scarpered.

The deaths continued to mount that day in May. A man eating his fried breakfast in a greasy spoon in Hatfield fell facedown into a plate of baked beans, never to finish his meal. A woman running round Lake Windermere stumbled and tripped into the dark water, offering no resistance as she sank to the bottom. An old woman on a Ryanair flight from Bristol, excitedly looking forward to seeing her grandchildren in Spain, was unable to be awoken upon landing in Alicante. And many, many more.

The bodies were all processed properly, each taken to a local hospital or morgue, analysed fully and cause of death ascertained. Surinder Patel was treated as a murder, while Winston Jones’ half-eaten body offered little to determine cause of death, and was recorded as accidental. But the others were each diagnosed as heart failure.

As pathologists around the country separately wrote the cause of death on the certificates, there was no one to notice that the times of death were all within a few minutes of each other. Only the deceased chef made the national news, but then it wasn’t every day a celebrity dropped down dead on live television.

MONDAY

Chapter One

Brody looked at his watch . Damn, he was now officially fifteen minutes late for his job interview. The car pulled up and he exited the taxi, throwing cash at the driver, and ran up the steps to the GCHQ visitor reception. His train from London had been delayed en route, using up all of his hour-long contingency allowance. He’d had to queue for a taxi outside Cheltenham Spa station, forgetting that Uber , the app he used all the time in London to request cabs, wasn’t available out in the sticks yet. Then the busybody guard at the security post set within the razor wire-topped perimeter fence hadn’t helped either. He’d taken ages to check off Brody’s name and raise the barrier to allow the taxi through.

He’d expected the UK government’s intelligence headquarters to be located within acres of undulating Cotswolds countryside to avoid unwanted observation, but instead the striking doughnut-shaped concrete-and-steel campus was situated on the edge of Cheltenham, surrounded by residential suburbia.

Brody hurried over to the receptionist and, straightening his slim, plain black tie, and smoothing back his white blond hair, gave his name. She consulted her computer, confirmed he was expected and asked for his identification. He reached into the leather man bag hanging from his shoulder, pulled out his driving licence and handed it over. Brody mentally hopped from one foot to the other as she studiously examined both sides and then paused to compare his face against the miniature image embedded in the plastic.

He smiled cheesily. I’m hardly going to use a fake ID in here of all places.

I wouldn’t put it past you of all people, Brody, boomed a male voice from behind him.

Brody whirled around, pleased to see the massive form of Victor Gibb, who was smiling from within his cavernous cheeks. Gibb’s hand engulfed Brody’s as they shook.

Glad you came, Brody. I half expected you to bail out.

Of course I came. I’m just sorry I’m so late. Will it be a problem, Doc?

Gibb wasn’t actually a doctor, not as far as Brody knew anyway. ‘Doc’ was a reference to Doc_Doom, Gibb’s handle on the CrackerHack hacker forum where they had originally met and formed an online friendship over the last two years. Brody had only met the man in person six weeks ago and still found it difficult to adapt to his real world name.

It’s okay. I had planned some time for a grand tour and a pep talk before your panel interview, but I guess you’ll just have to bluff it. He reached beyond Brody to take a red badge from the receptionist. Here. Put this on and I’ll escort you to the lions’ den.

Brody clipped the visitor badge to his lapel and followed Gibb to a security turnstile, next to which stood a uniformed guard and an electronic scanning machine. Brody automatically placed his bag on the conveyer belt and started emptying his pockets as if he was at airport security.

Gibb held his hand out. Mobile phone, please.

Reluctantly, Brody handed over his Samsung Galaxy. Gibb handed it to the guard.

You’ll get it back when you leave.

I thought phone signals were blocked inside the Doughnut?

Gibb carried on walking. Been doing some research on us, have you, Brody?

Brody shrugged and passed through the metal detector, absurdly pleased with himself when it didn’t go off. Of course he had done some research. He rarely walked into an office building without having thoroughly cased the joint first. But then he was usually testing security procedures, attempting to penetrate a secure data centre, or gain unauthorised access to their private computer network from inside the firewall. And although today was a legitimate meeting and not a penetration test he’d been hired to carry out, by habit he had researched GCHQ as much as was feasible. He considered it good practice.

Brody caught up with Gibb, who was surprisingly sprightly for his size, and asked, So this is the Street, is it? He indicated the long corridor that curved off into the distance, walkways above it crossing between the outer and inner rings of the building. Natural light streamed through a glass roof high above. On either side of them, glass-walled partitions gave views of open plan offices, although some windows were obscured by blinds. Groups of staff traversed the corridor and walkways, some in business suits, most dressed casually. Whenever they clocked Brody’s bright red visitor badge, their conversations hushed and they stared at him as if he was a leper. Brody had never experienced such paranoia in employees before.

I’m impressed. Yes, this is the Street. It encircles the building. We have restaurants and coffee shops further along. Need to keep the six thousand staff based here fed and watered. There’s also a gym, shops and even a prayer room.

They reached a circular stairway next to a bank of lifts. Gibb chose the stairs. Brody was mildly annoyed. He didn’t want to be uncomfortably hot and sweaty in a suit during a job interview. Two floors above, they entered an open plan office and marched across it, passing lines of staff working on computers. Brody automatically glanced at their screens, naturally inquisitive, but they’d already become aware of the visitor, either turning off their monitors or minimising any open windows so that only their official background wallpaper was visible: an aerial shot of the building they were in.

Well, here we are, announced Gibb, having halted outside the door to a large boardroom. Vertical blinds hid whatever lay behind its glass walls. I’ll be here when you finish later. Let’s grab a coffee and debrief afterwards.

Sounds good. Especially the coffee part.

Let me give you a piece of advice, Brody.

Yes?

Remember one thing. We know far more about you than you think we do.

Fair enough, Doc. Wish me luck.

Brody took a deep breath and entered the room.

Two men and one woman sat along one side of an enormous oval boardroom table. One lonely chair remained, directly opposite them. None of them stood to greet him, making Brody realise that his vision of a pleasant chat was somewhat misplaced.

Take a seat, Mr Taylor, commanded the older man in the middle, peering at him over reading glasses perched low on his long nose, thinning grey hair combed over his balding skull. He wore a dark tweed jacket over a dark shirt, open at the collar. His expression was surly, as if Brody was inconveniencing him by showing up.

Brody did as he was told, pushing the chair back from the table so that he could cross his legs, casually resting his left ankle above his right knee. He knew this would make him appear relaxed and in control. He clasped his hands lightly and dropped them in his lap.

He waited.

The woman, who sat on the right, coughed and then smiled. She was in her late thirties, attractive and buxom with a low-cut top that exposed lots of cleavage. Brody consciously held her eye and smiled back.

Mr Taylor, my name is Jane. This is Edward. She indicated the spectacled man in the centre who had already spoken. And on his right is Graham.

The man called Graham hadn’t acknowledged Brody once since he’d entered. He was busy swiping on his smartphone, seemingly oblivious to Brody’s presence. He wore a pinstriped three-piece suit with a silk handkerchief protruding from the top pocket. His chestnut hair was cut with precision and his nails were manicured. Brody decided that of the three, he looked like trouble.

Graham dropped his phone into his inner suit pocket, sat forward and turned to face his colleagues. Is it Mr Taylor? I’m a little confused.

Or is it Mr Brody? suggested Edward, pushing his glasses up his nose, as if to get a better view of Brody.

Brody sighed and spoke for the first time since entering. I’ve already been through this three times with Doc … sorry, I mean Victor. He promised me that my real name would be revealed to the interview panel only to complete the vetting process before I’m asked to sign the Official Secrets Act. If you choose to employ me, I get to continue under my assumed identity of Brody Taylor. And that’s how everyone round here would know me. That was the deal.

Yes, I’m aware of your conversations with Victor. But you have to appreciate our issue with that, Mr … Jane stumbled over his name.

Taylor, insisted Brody. This is non-negotiable.

But the whole purpose of GCHQ is to protect the country from anonymous cyberthreats. We have to be above board in how we conduct ourselves, especially with each other.

Really? Seems that everyone here hides his or her real identities. Do you guys even know each other’s surnames? Brody looked at each of them. Edward was about to speak, but Brody continued, indignant. And then there’s Victor, our friend waiting outside. He spent two years grooming me on the internet under an anonymous identity, attempting to lure me into meeting him in the real world so that he could invite me to sign up. Seems that double standards are the done thing round here.

But why the need for an assumed identity at all? asked Edward.

"Online I go by the handle of Fingal. I’m sure Victor’s already told you that. As Fingal, I’ve made a lot of enemies in cyberspace. Many of them are dangerous. But online, I can hold my own against anyone. Anyone. But, like everyone who enters the deep web, I operate anonymously, masking my real world IP address so that it’s almost impossible to track me down in the real world. Even GCHQ’s prying eyes have failed at this. That’s why it took Doc two years to track me down, and even then it was someone else that stumbled across me. But they only managed to expose one of my fake identities, not my real one. It’s my final defence and I use it to maintain complete separation from my family. I will not risk their lives because of what I choose to do for a living."

Okay, I understand all that, Mr Taylor. But why also here in GCHQ? asked Edward.

I’m sure you three are all nice, honest people, but you do hire hackers to work here. Hackers can’t be trusted. Ever. If any one of them linked me to my online persona of Fingal, they might decide to expose my identity online. They probably couldn’t help themselves.

You seem to have a high opinion of yourself, Mr Taylor, stated Jane. Brody noticed that she’d used the surname from the identity he wanted to use. He’d won that argument.

Perhaps, he conceded. Let me try and explain. Online, Fingal is regarded as one of the world’s most prestigious elite hackers. Fact. Getting one over on Fingal would bump up the online reputation of any person who achieved it. To a hacker, status in the hacking community is everything. And exposing Fingal might be enough to tempt even the white hat hackers you have working here if they found out I was among them. I won’t risk it. He paused and then added, And that’s disregarding any financial inducement. After all, the Russian mafia has recently upped the bounty on my head to five million dollars.

So you’re concerned that another GCHQ employee could expose you online and lead the bad guys to you in the real world, Jane summarised.

Brody nodded.

Not very trusting, are you? This was Graham. He’d only spoken twice now and it seemed each time was an attempt to provoke.

Not when it comes to protecting my family and those close to me. They would be fair game to the Russian mafia. Leverage against me. One of my close friends was killed because I slipped up. I’m not going to repeat that mistake.

And this is why you want to join GCHQ?

The gruesome image of Danny’s lifeless body, with the back of his head blown off, blood and brains all over Brody’s front room, inserted itself into Brody’s mind. Danny had indeed been Brody’s friend but, more importantly, he had been the soul mate and long-term partner of Brody’s closest friend, Leroy.

When Brody’s identity had been uncovered, Vorovskoy Mir, a Russian mafia-funded cybergang, had deployed a hitman to take out Brody in retaliation for years of continually disrupting their online scams, which in turn cut off their illegal revenue streams. Under his anonymous online handle of Fingal, Brody had long been on their public Most Wanted list, where they offered financial rewards for information leading to the capture of any of the hackers listed. At the time of the hit, Fingal was third on the list with a $1 million bounty. The hitman had carried out the attack in Brody’s apartment, where Leroy and Danny had been staying. All three would have been eliminated, his two friends simply casualties of war, but the police had arrived just in time. Well, in time to save Brody and Leroy, but not Danny. Brody now topped the Most Wanted list, priced at $5 million.

Shaking the image of Danny from his mind, Brody focused on his objective. Yes. Together, I think we can bring down Vorovskoy Mir. GCHQ has failed to bring them down for years. I believe we can help each other.

Let me get this straight, said Edward, incredulity in his tone. You want a job here so that you can access GCHQ’s resources to bring down a Russian cybergang?

Brody made a show of thinking about it and then nodded. Yes, Ed.

Edward’s jaw dropped. Graham burst out laughing. Jane shook her head.

Brody continued. Vorovskoy Mir has state sponsorship from Moscow. It’s on record for attempting to hack the nuclear power stations at Sizewell and Torness as well as our national grid. And that’s ignoring all the lucrative drugs and human trafficking rings it supports. Given GCHQ’s main purpose is to protect the UK’s critical infrastructure from cyberthreats like this, I’d hazard a guess that you have a whole team dedicated to bringing down Vorovskoy Mir. And I can increase their chances of success.

We’re not in the business of hiring externally for one-off projects, Mr Taylor, said Jane. We recruit analysts who are looking for a rewarding career combatting cyberterrorism in all its forms.

And I’m happy to be deployed wherever you want, offered Brody, "after we’ve brought Vorovskoy Mir to its knees."

Edward and Graham glanced at each other.

Brody knew he had their attention now.

Graham turned back to Brody, all business. He leaned forward. What do you have that GCHQ doesn’t already have?

Three things. Brody counted off on his fingers. One, I think like them. Two, they’re after me and so we can use that to lure them out. It was time to play his trump card, which he’d not even revealed to Victor Gibb. And three, I’ve seen Contagion’s face.

Brody was referring to the leader of the Russian cybergang. While Brody, Leroy and Danny were being held at gunpoint by the hitman, Contag10n had Skyped in to personally observe Brody’s execution over the remote live video feed. Safe in the knowledge that Brody was about to be killed, Contag10n had revealed his face. The image of the tattooed, metal-studded young cybercriminal was indelibly imprinted on Brody’s retinas.

You’ve seen Contagion? asked Graham, disbelievingly.

Better than that, I’ve talked to him.

Graham folded his arms and sat back in his chair.

The interview carried on for another fifty minutes, but Brody knew the hard part was over. Jane steered the conversation back to the benefits of a career working for Her Majesty. She grilled him over his psychometric test results, probing into Brody’s lack of respect for authority, which he found amusing and didn’t deny. It became clear that she was representing the human resources department and, as such, Brody paid lip service but nothing more. It wasn’t her he needed to impress.

Edward, on the other hand, appeared to be on the panel to determine Brody’s technical competencies. His questioning began with an examination of Brody’s programming abilities. He commented favourably on the results of the online tests Brody had completed the week before. He then turned the conversation into a discussion on the pros and cons of a range of computer hacking and social engineering techniques, visibly impressed at Brody’s balanced approach to exploiting weaknesses in computer systems, digital or human.

Meanwhile, Graham contented himself with observing Brody intently, and offered no comments nor asked any further questions for the rest of the meeting. Brody concluded that Graham must work on the Russian desk and had made his decision, one way or the other, back at the beginning of the meeting during Brody’s revelations about Vorovskoy Mir and Contag10n.

Half an hour after the interview finished, Brody and Victor Gibb were back on the ground floor of the building, enjoying coffee in one of the cafés located on the Street. During their journey back, Gibb had diverted him into a small onsite museum. Brody had been surprised to see displayed the first Enigma decoding machine, which had cracked German signals during the Second World War. His interest was also piqued by the notes handwritten on JRR Tolkien’s application to join the code breakers at Bletchley Park, the original location for the organisation that would eventually become known as GCHQ. He wondered what the notes would say on his own application following his earlier interview.

Brody savoured the bitter flavour of his espresso and nodded at his host to show his appreciation.

Not too bad, is it? agreed Gibb, sat opposite Brody on a double leather sofa, his massive frame spread over both cushions. With one hand, Gibb lifted his own coffee to his lips, an oversized mug of caffè latte; his other hand maintained in position a few centimetres below, palm side down, to capture any drips that might otherwise spill onto his considerable girth. Brody could see it was a practised manoeuvre.

Considering we’re in the back end of beyond, I’m quite impressed, commented Brody.

Victor leaned forward carefully. So, how do you think the interview went?

I’m not sure the panel appreciated my honesty. They’re probably used to recruiting gullible, whiter-than-white graduates rather than the likes of me, with my scars and a damn sight more shades of grey.

I’m sure they’ve seen worse.

Maybe, but probably only when interrogating captured Russian or Chinese black hats.

Victor placed his fingers over his mouth, feigning shock. You’re not a Russian black hat double agent, are you?

Brody smiled obligingly. Maybe Graham wondered that when I demanded to be attached to his Russian desk.

Did he agree?

Gibb’s innocent question was all the confirmation Brody needed that Graham led the Russian desk.

I think they’re reticent about letting me go after Vorovskoy Mir. They pretty much said revenge is not a good motive for joining GCHQ.

What did you say?

I told them to like it or lump it. If they want me in the service of Her Majesty, that’s the only way they’re getting me.

Jesus, Brody.

It’s not like the pay’s attractive.

Well, that’s for sure, confirmed Victor.

Did they agree to you maintaining your Brody Taylor identity?

They didn’t like it. But I think so.

Aren’t you concerned Vorovskoy Mir will track you down again?

Come on, Doc. I’m sure you’ve been fully briefed on my vetting process. You already know full well I’ve assumed a different identity.

Well, yes, of course. Brody Charles Taylor instead of Brody Kenneth Taylor. You sure that’s enough to keep the bastards off your scent?

Brody knew he should have chosen a completely different name to better ensure his own safety. Perhaps it was a tiny rebellion against having to give up so much following the attack. Losing his apartment was just about bearable but severing all use of the Brody Taylor name he’d used for the last ten years would have been tough. However, to prevent the Russian mafia tracking him down in the real world again, he’d immediately dropped the original Brody Taylor identity and all ties to it.

Fortunately, his secret cache of legitimate pre-prepared alternatives, which he’d applied his hacking skills to set up many years before, included one other ‘Brody Taylor’. This version had a different middle name and date of birth as well as a distinct passport number, national insurance number and other identifying factors that gave credence in the real world. But at least he could continue operating under the same name, albeit four years younger than his real age of 32.

It will work fine. Anyway, there’s no way I’m signing up here under my real name. That was the deal we made, Doc. If I ever spot it on any database or correspondence, I walk. Okay?

Victor nodded soberly. So, what is your real name then? He gulped some more coffee and then gave a cheeky smile. You can tell me, we’re amongst friends. He waved his free arm around, pointedly indicating the groups of other government employees enjoying their coffee breaks or having informal meetings.

Either you’ve got clearance to know my real name, or you haven’t. Brody sat back and folded his arms. But you’re not getting it out of me.

Correct answer, said Gibb with a grin. We’ll make a good GCHQ network operations specialist out of you with responses like that.

Brody shrugged. He’d found the whole vetting process far too intimate and didn’t appreciate Gibb needling him. He’d felt completely naked when he’d finally exposed the identity he was born with when asked to sign the Official Secrets Act, but it was the only way he could apply for the job. While his alternate identities were good, they weren’t up to fooling GCHQ.

They chatted amiably for a while and, when their cups were empty, Gibb escorted Brody back to reception. Brody picked up his phone from the security guard and turned it back on.

Do you think they’ll take me on, Doc?

Gibb thought for a moment. I would think so. Having the infamous Fingal working for the government is too much to pass up, even for them. I guess we’ll know in a few days. Assuming the outcome is positive, when could you start?

Pretty much straight away.

Will you move to the Cotswolds?

They passed through the final turnstile and stood in the reception area next to two imposing pieces of art sitting on black onyx plinths. The frosted glass rock structures were still rough, as if they had been hewn out of the ground by giants. Their centres had been polished into round convex transparent lenses. Aptly, they reminded Brody of the All-Seeing Eye in Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings.

Not sure. I’ll probably rent a flat in Cheltenham during the week. Brody looked up suddenly. You do get decent broadband speed out here in the sticks?

Victor chuckled. I think it’s probably no secret that with GCHQ being headquartered here, we generally have the fastest speeds in the country.

Brody smiled. Well, that’s settled, then.

Have you told that beautiful police detective of yours that you plan to stay down here midweek?

The smile dropped from Brody’s face. No, he hadn’t told Jenny that his plans required him to leave London, just as their relationship was getting going. He wasn’t sure they’d survive as a long-distance relationship. Few people could.

Just as he was pondering how to talk to her, his phone buzzed three times in his pocket. This close to the entrance, it had picked a signal. But three buzzes meant someone had just posted something on the CrackerHack forum that included one of four keywords Brody was monitoring. Any time one of the keywords was used, an alert was sent to him immediately.

Brody reached for his phone and read the message. Frowning, he looked up at Gibb and asked, Do you remember BionicM@n from CrackerHack?

Yes, why?

I don’t suppose GCHQ has his real world name and address, does it?

Even if it does, I’m not sharing it with you until you’re a proper employee.

Come on, Doc.

What’s going on, Brody?

He’s on the Vorovskoy Mir Most Wanted list.

So what? So are you.

Well, they’ve just killed him.

DI Jenny Price placed the phone back on its cradle and punched the air in triumph, but then quickly withdrew her hand before anyone in the incident room spotted her reaction. She composed herself, just about suppressing a smile. Noisily, she pushed her chair back and stood from behind her desk, where she’d been trapped for weeks under a mountain of paperwork.

DS Alan Coombs and DC Fiona Jones looked up.

Alan. Fiona, said Jenny. Drop whatever you’re doing. You’re coming with me. She headed towards the exit of the incident room.

"What’s

Reviews for Taking Up Serpents

[Paul Sandiford · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I have read all 3 Brody Taylor books and eagerly await an anouncement that BOOK 4 is being writen or finished. Hopefully other authors will start including cyber to their stories either black or white hat does not matter just bring it on